JESUS AT THE DERBY.

June, 1890.

This is the age of advertisement. Look at the street-hoardings, look at
the newspapers, look at our actor-managers, look at Barnum. Scream from
the housetops or you stand no chance. If you cannot attract attention
in any other way, stand on your head. Get talked about somehow. The only
hell is obscurity, and notoriety is the seventh heaven. If you cannot
make a fortune, spend one. Run through a quarter of a million in three
years, be the fool of every knave, and though you are as commonplace as
a wet day in London, you shall find a host of envious admirers.

Should the worst come to the worst, you can defy obscurity by committing
a judiciously villainous murder. Perhaps Jack the Ripper had a passion
for publicity, and liked to see his name in the papers; until he grew
blase and retired upon his laurels.

Yes, it is an advertising age, and an advertising age is a sensational
age. Religion itself—the staid, the demure—shares in the general
tendency. She preaches in the style of the auction room, she beats drums
and shakes tambourines in the streets, she affects criminals and
dotes on vice, she bustles about the reformation of confirmed topers.
By-and-bye she will get up a mission to lunatics and idiots. She is
now a very "forward" person. Forward movements are the rage in all the
churches. But Methodism bears the palm, though Presbyterianism threatens
to run it hard in the person of John McNeill. Hugh Price Hughes is a
very smart showman. When truth is stale he is ready with a bouncing lie,
and has "face" enough to keep it up in five chapters. But the West-End
Mission is getting rather tame. The dukes and duchesses are not yet
converted. Money is spent like water and the aristocracy still go to
Hades. A new move is tried. The "forward" Methodists organise a Mission
to Epsom, Jesus Christ goes to the Derby; that is, he goes by proxy,
in the person of Mr. Nix. A van, a tent, and a big stock of pious
literature, with mackintoshes and umbrellas, form his equipment. He
is accompanied by a band of workers. Their rules are to be up for
prayer-meeting at seven in the morning, and "never to look at any race,
or jockey, or horse." This is a precaution against the Old Adam. It
saves the Mission from going over to the enemy on the field of battle.

Mr. Nix gives an account of his performance in the Methodist Times. He
converted a lot of people. So has Hugh Price Hughes. "At one time," he
says, "there were three Church of England clergymen and their wives and
some distinguished members of the aristocracy in the tent"—probably
out of the wet. Of course they were not converted. But what a pity!
A "converted clergyman" would have been a glorious catch, worth five
thousand pounds at St. James's Hall. And fancy bagging a duke! It was
enough to make Mr. Nix's mouth water. He must have felt some of the
agony of Tantalus. He was up to the neck, so to speak, in lords and
parsons, and could not grasp one. Dissenting ministers and their
wives did not show up. Naturally. They would not go to such a naughty
place—except in a mission van. Mr. Nix has a keen eye for the Methodist
business. He has open and sly digs at the Church clergy. One of the
tipsters said his father was a clergyman, but "his religion was no good
to him." He would give anything for the religion of "the little chap
that stood on the stool." That was Mr. Nix.

We suspect the Epsom races will outlast Mr. Nix. There is more boast
than performance about Missions. Christianity is always converting
drunkards, profligates, prostitutes, and thieves; but somehow our social
evils do not disappear. Even the drink bill runs up, despite all
the Gospel pledges. Nix is the practical result of the efforts of
gentlemen like Mr. Nix. They are on the wrong tack. They are sweeping
back the tide with mops. The real reformatory agency is the spread of
education and refinement.

Yet the mission will go on. It is a good advertisement. Mr. Hughes gives
it a special leading article. He cries up the Epsom mob as the "most
representative gathering of Englishmen," and "therefore a fair specimen
of the mental and moral condition of the English people." This is stuff
and nonsense, but it serves its purpose. Mr. Hughes wants to show that
Missions are needed. He finds that "the great majority of the people are
outside the Christian Church," that "this is still a heathen country."
Perhaps so. But what a confession after all these centuries of
gospel-grinding and Church predominance! There are fifty or sixty
thousand churches and chapels, and as many sky-pilots. Six million
children go to Sunday-school. The Bible is forced into the public
day-schools. Copies are circulated by the million. Twenty millions a
year, at the least, is spent in inculcating Christianity. Yet England is
still "a heathen country." Well, if this be the case, what is the use of
Mr. Nix? What is the use of Mr. Hughes? Greater preachers have gone
before them and have failed. Is it not high time for Jesus to run the
job himself? "Come, Lord Jesus," as John says. Let him descend from the
Father's right hand and take Mr. Nix's place at the next Derby. He might
even convert the "clergymen and their wives" and the "distinguished
members of the aristocracy." Anyhow he should try. He will not be
crucified again. The worst that could happen is a charge of obstruction,
and perhaps a fine of forty shillings. But surely he will not lay
himself open to such indignities. He should triumphantly assert his
deity. A few big miracles would strike Englishmen more than the Jews,
who were sated with the supernatural. He might stop the horses in mid
career, fix the jockeys in their saddles, root the Epsom mob where they
stood, and address them from the top of the grand stand. That would
settle them. They would all go to church next Sunday. Yes, Jesus must
come himself, or the case is hopeless. Missions to the people of this
"heathen country" are like fleas on an elephant. What the ministers
should pray for is the second coming of Christ. But we guess it will be
a long time before they sing "Lo, he comes, in clouds descending."
Besides, it would be a bad job for them. Their occupation would be
gone. A wholesale conversion would cut up the retail traders. On the
whole, we have no doubt the men of God prefer the good old plan. If
Jesus came he would take the bread out of their mouths. That would be
shabby-after they had devoted themselves to the business. The very
publicans demand compensation, and could the sky-pilots do less? But
perhaps Jesus would send them all home. We should like to see them go.
It would give the world a chance.